EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum

by Shane Stadler

  He gave the dive team orders to examine the bay area, determine if there were any threats, and measure the slip and bay dimensions. If the base was as large as he suspected, they’d dock and explore it.

  The dive team was back within an hour. McHenry and his first officer, Lieutenant Diggs, met with them in the planning room.

  The dive team leader, a sinewy man named Critch, explained what they’d found. “The bay doors open to a vertical tunnel, 25 meters in height, leading to an internal dock. It was designed for subs. It’ll be tight, but it’s large enough for the North Dakota.”

  “What’s the state of the internal structure?” Diggs asked.

  “There was no light,” Critch answered. “From what we could see with flashlights, the place seemed to be in good shape. We didn’t go beyond the dock, as instructed.”

  McHenry nodded. “Good work, gentlemen, you are excused.”

  The men left, leaving McHenry and Diggs alone in the planning room.

  “What do you think?” McHenry asked.

  “Sounds like we should get moving,” Diggs said. “Dock and send teams out to explore.”

  “Agreed,” McHenry said.

  “Do you think this base, or whatever it is, is connected somehow to the beacon?”

  “Yes,” McHenry replied. “Too much of a coincidence. And we need to gather as much information as we can.”

  “If we find something important, will we communicate with the carrier group?”

  “Depends on what we find,” McHenry explained. “But I don’t think we should transmit at all.”

  Diggs agreed.

  McHenry stood up and opened the door. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  CHAPTER X

  1

  Sunday, 24 May (7:50 a.m. CST – Chicago)

  Jonathan McDougal was regretting taking on a summer class, even though it was only a six-week course. He sat at his desk and took a break from grading the last few of over 40 papers he’d promised to return to his students by ten the next morning.

  He stood, walked over to the windows, and gazed into the small courtyard below. Leaves had started to fill in the skeletons of the trees that had been dormant for longer than usual this year. It had been a cold winter and a busy spring semester teaching, mentoring two law students, and running the DNA Foundation.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Denise.

  He waved her in and said, “I don’t have too much time.”

  She nodded and set her backpack on a chair at the large wooden table, pulled out a laptop, and turned it on. As she pulled her hair into a ponytail, she said, “You have to see this. It’s from Will.”

  “Oh?” he said and walked over to the table.

  “He sent some pictures to our joint email account,” she explained as she downloaded the files. “He said action is imminent.” She pulled up the photos.

  Jonathan looked on as she paged through them. Some were photos of documents – lists of names, maps, building layouts, and instructions on how to build bombs. Others were pictures of cars and license plates, houses, and men with bumps on their foreheads – five of them. One was a photo of a case of plastic explosives.

  “The men are former CP inmates,” Jonathan said. “Looks like they’re planning to carry out some assassinations – with bombs.”

  “There’s more,” Denise said, opening another set of photos.

  Jonathan looked them over and was flabbergasted. “Are those what I think they are?”

  “Exoskeleton parts,” she said, nodding. “These are from the Syncorp facility in Baton Rouge. They’re shipping them to China.”

  He sat down and rubbed his chin. “Those Syncorp bastards are like cockroaches.”

  “Will thinks the CP men are planning to attack the Syncorp facility – and assassinate the upper-level personnel,” she said.

  “I have a half a mind to let them carry it out,” he said.

  “What should we do?”

  “There are only a few people we can trust in the FBI,” Jonathan said. “Let’s turn the info over to Agent Carver – ”

  Jonathan turned his head in response to a knock at his office door.

  A young woman stood in the doorway, mid-thirties, glasses, reddish hair pulled back in a bun. He recognized her, and his heart picked up pace.

  “Professor McDougal?” Sylvia said.

  “Back already?” he answered, “please, come in.”

  Sylvia walked in, handed him a folded piece of paper, and walked out.

  Jonathan and Denise sat in silence for a few seconds, looking at each other. He unfolded the note as she walked around the table to his side:

  Please meet us at Bridges Café in Logan Square today 2:00 p.m.

  Do not speak or write of this.

  Do not take your cell phones. You are being watched.

  You may be in danger.

  Denise spoke first. “Here we go again.”

  Jonathan nodded as a chill crept up on him. Why were the Omnis back in Chicago?

  2

  Sunday, 24 May (9:12 a.m. EST – Antarctica)

  McHenry watched the video monitors as the pilot feathered the North Dakota into the gap between the slips, and then upward, through the open bay doors. It was fortunate that the port was large enough to accommodate the North Dakota, as it was much larger than the German U-boats. After about 10 minutes of fine position adjustments, they ascended through the vertical tunnel and surfaced inside the structure.

  Four teams of four men each had been assembled. The first team would exit and establish a perimeter. McHenry desperately wanted to go himself, but that was ill advised: protocol dictated that the captain stay on board until everything was secure. He decided he’d go after the fourth team dispatched. His first officer would stay onboard.

  The crew operated in shifts, but not one man on the North Dakota was asleep. The first team exited the hatch, and everyone who could get close to the video monitor watched it, even though they couldn’t see anything more than scanning flashlight beams on a black background. There was much excitement, and too many people in the control room: McHenry ordered non-essential personnel to leave.

  Twenty minutes later, after the perimeter had been established, the remaining three teams exited through the hatch to the platform. One team set up floodlights on the deck, and the others searched the extended area for booby-traps. A half an hour later, McHenry climbed out of the North Dakota and onto the steel dock.

  The place seemed to be carved out of solid rock, and was much larger than it looked on the monitors. The ceiling rose to more than 100 feet, giving the space a cathedral-like feeling. The air smelled like wet cement, and it was warmer than he’d expected.

  Every noise echoed, making it difficult to hear people speak. McHenry walked over to a team leader who was rigging additional spotlights. “Find anything unusual?” McHenry asked.

  “It’s all unusual, sir,” the man replied. “Did you notice the banner on the far wall?” The man pointed towards the far side of the cavern, opposite the slip where the North Dakota was docked.

  The floodlights caught only a part of it, so McHenry pointed his flashlight to illuminate the rest.

  The wall was about 250 feet away. Hung on it was an enormous, blood-red banner with a black swastika inscribed in a white circle. Looking more closely, he realized the symbol was not a swastika – it was more complicated, like a modified tic-tac-toe board.

  “What the hell is that?” he said under his breath. He turned to the man who had pointed it out. “Get an electrician and find the power source for this place,” he ordered, pointing to the lights hanging from the ceiling. “See if we can rig something from the Dakota.” That was something that made modern subs different: the power plant. They had nuclear reactors, and therefore virtually limitless power. The question was whether it was possible to interface the Dakota with the facility’s power grid.

  Beneath the banner was a row of six steel doors, each at lea
st 10 feet tall and 5 feet wide. It looked as if they were embedded in the gray-brown rock. Suspended from the ceiling were two overhead cranes, and tracks to position them anywhere in the bay. He figured they were used for loading and unloading, although they looked strong enough to repair damaged subs. About 20 feet up the far wall, near the banner, was a long, corrugated-metal walkway, behind which were a dozen large windows and a few doors.

  There was almost too much to explore. He decided that half the crew should always be on the Dakota, along with either himself, or his first officer, Diggs. That meant there would be around 70 men in the facility at any time.

  Establishing a perimeter, and dealing with other logistics, like power, were straightforward tasks. But he wasn’t sure what to do after all of that was accomplished. He called over Chief Petty Officer Gonzales who was running cables for lights. “Take your team and start searching for filing cabinets, locked rooms, or anything that might tell us more about this place.”

  Gonzales nodded, handed his cables to another man, and started walking away.

  “And, Gonzales,” McHenry added, making the man turn to face him again, “don’t get lost.”

  Gonzales smiled and nodded, and then continued on his way.

  McHenry walked around the main bay area, which was almost as large as a football field. The floor was solid stone that looked as if it had been ground smooth. He thought it was too perfect and level to be a purely natural feature. It might have been a natural cavern that the Germans had altered. Even so, the construction of the place had been an awesome undertaking. It was a mystery that he thought might rival that of the beacon.

  A young crewman, an electrician, approached McHenry and informed him that they had located the power grid. They’d have to rig up a converter to interface with it, but it should be straightforward.

  “What about cables?” McHenry asked.

  “Everything’s here,” the man replied. “We found an electrical supplies storage room near the main power bank. We have everything we need – that is, if the insulation in the cables is still good after all this time.”

  “Okay – check it out,” McHenry said. “Better be careful not to start an electrical fire with the aged wiring.”

  “We’ll go circuit by circuit, sir,” the man replied and then left to carry out his task.

  McHenry examined the walls and ceiling. Behind the beams and other steel support structures was bare rock. Like the floor, it looked as if there had been a lot of excavation to form the cavern. At first, he wondered where they would have put such a large volume of material, but it was obvious: they pushed it out the bottom. There was a kilometer-deep cavern beneath them.

  He walked to the side of the bay that was to the right of the wall with the banner. Near its center was a set of sliding bay doors, about 20 feet tall and 30 feet wide. He tried to peak through the crack between them, but couldn’t see anything. He then forced his fingers between them and pulled, but they wouldn’t budge. He backed away. They’d have to get inside when they had power.

  To the right of the sliding doors was a large freight elevator. He aimed his flashlight through its small window, revealing the elevator’s control panel, its six buttons labeled with numbers and German words. Six floors.

  He turned in response to footsteps pounding behind him. It was Critch, the man who’d led the first exploration team.

  The man breathed heavily as he tried to deliver his message. “Sir, you have to see this.”

  “What is it?” McHenry asked. Critch seemed spooked.

  “Not sure,” he replied. “There are bones. Human.”

  The place immediately took on a different complexion. It seemed even darker and more menacing than it had just seconds before. He glanced up at the strange emblem on the banner as he followed Critch towards one of the doors directly beneath it. What in God’s name had the Nazis done here?

  3

  Sunday, 24 May (1:58 p.m. CST – Chicago)

  Jonathan followed Denise into the Bridges Café in Logan Square. He spotted their contacts at a small table near a window.

  As they approached, Daniel stood and stuck out his hand. “Thanks for coming,” he said, and shook each of their hands. Sylvia did the same.

  “Seemed urgent,” Jonathan said, wanting to get to the point. “We met just last week.”

  “Things are escalating, Mr. McDougal,” Daniel said. “You’re being watched. Red Wraith is connected to something much larger.”

  “Larger than Red Wraith?” Denise asked with an astonished look.

  Daniel and Sylvia remained silent.

  “You expect us to trust you,” Denise continued. “But you don’t trust us.”

  “My supervisor seems to trust you,” Daniel said. “And so do I. But the protocol required for sensitive information, something I’ve been subjected to for most of my life, is difficult to bypass.”

  “Who is your supervisor?” Jonathan asked.

  “The director of the CIA,” Daniel replied.

  “Your direct supervisor?” Jonathan asked, surprised.

  “Yes,” Sylvia affirmed. “We interact with him exclusively – we’re not supposed to know the identities of the other members of our group.”

  “We know you’re wary of the CIA,” Daniel said. “It’s a complicated entity. The right hand never knows what the left is doing. And sometimes a cancer can form that isn’t discovered until it’s too late.”

  “And what part of the CIA are you?” Denise asked. “Malignant or benign?”

  “We’re a combination of its memory and subconscious,” Daniel said. “Ever solve a problem, or experience an epiphany, subconsciously – while dreaming maybe? We serve that function for the CIA. We’re that tiny part of its brain, if you will, that mulls over details of the past without boundaries. We digest information from every classified source and analyze geopolitical events and dissect operations. While the rest of the CIA is dealing with current events, we’re remembering and dreaming. Thinking.”

  “So why are you are out in the light?” Jonathan asked. “Why did they send you?”

  “Because it’s important,” Sylvia said.

  “What do you want from us?” Jonathan asked.

  “We need to find William Thompson,” Daniel replied.

  Jonathan tried to respond with a blank stare as if he didn’t recognize the name, but he was sure his expression was coming off as awkward. He looked at Denise: her face had already reddened.

  Jonathan spoke quickly to head off Denise’s response. “He’s a former CP inmate. Why do you need to find him?”

  “We don’t know exactly,” Sylvia replied.

  “You don’t know?” Denise repeated. “Then why – ”

  “Because he’s in danger,” Daniel explained. “People are looking for him.”

  “Why?” Denise asked.

  “He may have acquired to ability to separate,” Daniel responded.

  “He’s safe,” Denise said.

  Jonathan glanced at Denise, hoping she’d take the hint and stop talking. “The fact of the matter is that we don’t know where he is exactly,” he said. It wasn’t technically a lie. They only knew the city. “We can get a message to him. But I doubt that he’ll cooperate with the CIA – that is, unless we give him more information.” Jonathan worked to contain his curiosity. “You’ll need to tell us more.”

  Daniel looked to Sylvia, and then back to Jonathan. “We should leave this place. Can we meet someplace private that you’re certain isn’t bugged?”

  “I know a place,” Jonathan said.

  Denise smiled. “The old library.”

  Jonathan gave Daniel and Sylvia directions, and they split up with plans to meet in an hour. Jonathan and Denise left the café first and got into his car. Denise seemed upset.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Worried,” she said. “Will’s somewhere in Baton Rouge, but I’m not sure I’d trust anyone with that information.”

  He agreed. “We should
warn him,” he suggested. “Perhaps we should hear what our visitors have to say first.”

  She agreed.

  Her hands trembled as she checked the messages on her phone. “Nothing new from Will,” she said.

  Five minutes later he parked the car in front of the law building and headed for his office to get a notebook. As they exited the stairway and stepped onto to his floor, he spied two people standing next to a door near the end of the hall. It was the door to his office.

  As he got closer, it was clear that they were males, probably mid-thirties – definitely not students – and Asian. Their attire and body language communicated that they were professionals of some kind.

  Jonathan and Denise stopped 10 feet in front of the men.

  “Jonathan McDougal?” the taller of the two asked.

  Their accents were thick, and Jonathan could tell they were Chinese. “How can I help you?” he replied.

  “I am Zhang,” the taller man said and nodded towards his shorter partner, “this is Wei. We were wondering if we could speak with you for a few minutes.”

  “About what?” Jonathan asked.

  “Please,” Zhang said. “Can we step into your office?”

  Jonathan reluctantly agreed, and they went in and sat at the table with him and Denise on one side, and the strangers on the other.

  “We have some questions regarding your investigation of the Compressed Punishment program,” Zhang said.

  “Who are you?” Denise asked.

  Wei answered, “We work out of the Chinese embassy. We are diplomats.”

  “I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation,” McDougal said.

  Zhang seemed to ignore his statement and continued. “We need to know the location of a man who was at the Detroit facility – the Red Box.”